


Tortise

by FrecklesOfRed (WatermelonDip)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath, Awkward Conversations, Bad Jokes, Blood and Injury, But That's Not the Point, F/M, Fluff, Gotta get the daily dose of crazy, Hallucinations, Hospitals, Hurt Sam Winchester, Late Night Conversations, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Slice of Life, Song: Creep (Radiohead), Why Did I Write This?, can i even say that?, from a certain angle, hurt reader, lets go injuries, multiple slices, not a song fic, not really tho, of something, set during like season one?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27630890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatermelonDip/pseuds/FrecklesOfRed
Summary: Your sense of reality is debatably odd. Sam doesn't listen to much Radiohead.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Tortise

**Author's Note:**

> I don't watch this show anymore.
> 
> Imma go ahead and let the inner fangirl write this one.

You don't usually have to think about blood.

Didn't-actually-because it's been a few months and all those years of your life when things like these weren't completely normal were gone-dead. You smile about it-happy maybe-not too happy but happy enough to keep your eyes open. Dean told you once-while ago-that he liked your spirit.

You had no idea what your spirit was like-why he liked it-or were it nested in your head but you appreciated the comment anyway.

Sam was very tall. When you first met the whole 'towering over you' effect bothered you more than it should've. You never liked tall people-overpowering-you felt trapped a lot and it really just added to that. But Sam wasn't trapping-didn't really want to be-you never told him that. He smiled at you a lot-friendly actions seemed to be his thing-his voice was very low and his posture was always the slightest bit downcast.

You thought about these things too often.

It was all worry-the expression you held-it replaced your calm demeanor and you worried too much for a gash that was just _all too average._ You hummed-it relaxed you- a song you seemed to have plastered brain escaped your lips in slightly off notes and Sam squinted. He tried to think of it-the tune-maybe it was just a distraction but he still wanted to know. You didn't talk about music much-listened to it-didn't talk about it.

The needle pierced his skin.

You didn't like how he ignored it-it seemed too normal-you wouldn't be perfectly calm if someone was pulling a string through your skin. Although you weren't Sam-Sam was Sam and that must've meant something you assumed. You once hit your head-a few years ago-you complained about it all day.

It seemed silly now.

"Creep."

He didn't look at you.

"Excuse me?"

You laughed-quiet-faint-lost in translation.

"Creep, Radiohead," you clarified-needed to. Sam's squint was less distinct. You kept pulling the string through his skin. "I could tell you were wondering." He nods-you find it sad-the nod ends and it's just you stitching his arm again. No really happy-focused maybe-you've done it a lot now. You took a class-wilderness training. You know how to do these things because that one woman with a pink hat and a million bandaids on her legs told you to be very precise.

Your ankle is cold. The weather isn't great-unreasonably chilly-the room has sucky heating. You told Dean it was stupid cold and he told you to shut up because _it was always like this._ He wasn't mean about it-blunt maybe-not mean. Your favorite shirt was totaled last week.

"Sam?"

He presses his lips together-very fine line.

"Yeah?"

You sigh-lost in translation again.

The lack of reply worries the air. Sam does look at you-isn't very detested by the action anyway-you look very nice sometimes. Though you usually just knit together your eyebrows and chuckle mindlessly at the funniest statement you can find. He doesn't like it.

You gulp it down.

"You sure you're fine?"

Your words are quiet-worries him-worries about himself a lot too-he doesn't really know what to say to it. You usually smile when you do this- _"That was a close one,"_ you would say when not thinking about whether it was close or not at all-you said nothing about distance-only asked.

"Yeah, of course."

It wasn't an answer-you assumed-so you left it alone.

"Why do you ask," he adds, you don't like the question. You don't like any questions-you think about how to avoid them a lot-it usually works but Sam can see through everyone and it leaves you silent. You do know why-though-and that makes it a little more challenging than you like. It's not that you find him attractive-although you probably do-but his expression is always quite soft, he looks kinder than most.

He waits for a while.

"Because," you say-notice you have finished. You close the wound and sigh. He doesn't think about it-you do-do you know as he does? "I'm not."

____

It hadn't been a hard one-not really considered much of anything-but your glass of water tasted like blood. It was red too-looked it to you-and when Dean asked you why your eyes were so large you had told him you were absolutely exhausted. He smiled at it-nodded-told you it was fine to get some well-deserved rest and you drank the water anyway. There was this metal tang, bitter, sharp, you almost expelled the substance from your own body.

Sam stood next to you as you gulped it down.

The glass ended up empty.

"You'd think after all this time _someone_ would be able to give us a little compensation for saving them." He's laughing at himself, not looking at you, you're throat tightens and you feel like the air has left you. "Without us, I bet they would all be dead in their graves. Gosh, the world is weird." It is, you think, but you don't have the air to agree with him. You gasp a little-strangely enough-and it's too quiet to be heard. Your knuckles whiten around the glass.

You kissed him once when you were drunk.

When was the last time you had a drink?

You stopped after a while-just made it harder-you found it more civilized maybe.

The glass clatters to the ground. It's very loud-the resonating crack that spills onto the floors as the tiny pieces of clear material fly along the ground. They spread-reach the edges of your shoes-the metal tang spreading through your senses and taking over your sight. It was very red-like when you were a pair of tinted sunglasses-and Sam seemed oddly silent. Though you couldn't hear the faint voices from the room over now-so it might've just been you.

There was a hand on your shoulder-a large hand-you always thought his hands were just ridiculous.

It's very cold, you think because you're shaking.

The sound slowly comes and you place a hand on the counter.

"I'll uh," you take a breath-Sam says nothing. "I'll find a broom."

____

You scream for the first time in months. It hurts-more than you expect-and blood isn't welcoming. You've been stabbed-twice-shanked too and you wonder if those are considered the same thing. This time it's the lower abdomen and you feel a lot of things when red coats your hand. The thing that injured you-though you weren't paying much attention when Sam told you its name-doesn't smile as you do.

It's a rush really.

"I would be more offended if I didn't feel so faint."

A knife clatters to the floor and you look into dead eyes.

You think maybe it knows-knows you're lost anyway-knows that a little blood on your sweatshirt won't kill you as much as it should. Although-you think-it knows you're probably gone now too because it _did_ dig into you pretty deep. You think about trying something-trying to find some silver or _anything_. Your hand won't move-shakes a little-and your smile fades.

There is a lot of blood on your sweatshirt now and you can only assume this one is totaled too.

You catch a glint of green against black.

It's Dean-a conclusion you jump to prematurely because it _sort of_ has to be Dean. Sam isn't here now, at least not in this room, other sided of the house and that can only mean that you will coat more than your hand when he sees you again. Dean is fast-he told you that when you met him-you thought he was flirting, now you wonder if it's just his personality. You drank a lot when you met him too-decided it would be best to sing Eye of the Tiger in perfect pitch when your brain said to would be so.

Dean sees you now and he chokes down something invisible.

It's on and off-you realize-meet them in a state and then meet them in another a couple of weeks later. No one mentions it-it just happens.

This just happened too.

Dean shouts-wordless.

It's gone and you think about the many reasons why it would want to stop looking at your now glassy eyes. Dean shouts again-real words-and hits it with something. You hear too many gunshots to count. You usually do count-try to log each bullet into your mind.

Your knees wobble.

There is a lot of darkness in front of you, a musty smell you don't think you'll ever forget, and then another little flash of green. The green grows closer-shadowed-and you want to be singing those songs with drunk brain again. You want to be smiling like a madman with the breeze touching your oddly uncovered legs. You want Dean to tell you Sam has been looking at you more than usual again-that you should say something and then you saying nothing.

Someone catches you because you don't know you're falling.

"Yeah shit, blood, not good, look at me-wait-just like-don't close your eyes-it's fine-I mean it's not but it's gonna be."

You nod. You might still be smiling and that makes it _worse._

"Okay-stay here-imma get Sam, you'll be fine, great actually, we'll kill this thing-just be safe right here and-"

You cough, not intentional, it sort of freezes the words that spill from his throat and you try to pretend like it didn't happen ad you can still see the purple-tinted lights. Hands tighten around your shoulders-decisive.

It's a very obvious shout of a name that isn't your own. You seem confused-maybe-and the hands leave your shoulder quickly. It's not that he thinks you can stand-you can't-or that he wants to let the red become you-but he has to so he does. He looks at you though-all you see is green-it's this green that catches you by surprise and tells you that he does think when you don't really believe that he would want to.

He calls back to Sam-because that was the shout-you smile at it.

It's like little dots, the sort of dots you might put on your curtains when you're just _that level_ of edgy but Ikea addicted. Then very black-too black-but not the black that means sleep because this isn't sleeping. It's a numbing sting, spreading, and a lot less red than you would think-lots of black now. Too much black-you realize-and then the color green leaves your mind for a while.

You think you hear something-maybe-and you remember when you were ten and Johnny Carter told you that your smile was nice but your jokes were stupid. 

It's very quiet-musty still.

____

Sam tells you that it was stupid to think you could do something on your own.

You agree-he hugs you, tells you he was worried-and then you groan because you hurt, a lot. He apologizes-says you need to take it easy-you nod.

Sam never tells you he was worried again.

____

It's very late, very dark, very cold. You drove here with them-screamed song lyrics into the abandoned air from the backseat-waited mostly. No hunt yet-not soon-and so you had more time to sit still. You were outside-not the wisest of decisions-and the walk was brisker than you usually liked to endure. You were quiet when you walked away-not that it was hard.

You slept on the floor a lot.

Your back hurt, one room and two beds, really it was just coincidence and a dash of bad karma. 

It wasn't just because you couldn't sleep and your headache was killing you-you had to plot. Leaving was always quite easy, simple really, they left most of the time before you away. Sam told you he wouldn't know what to do without you yesterday-you thought it ample reason to start worrying.

"Hey losers, I've got thing-many things-ignore me for a while? I swear, it isn't a big deal, just like forget I ever existed and then go on with your days while I leave." You sigh. "This crap is great."

The wind judged you.

____

You wrote a book. A year-less-more-you were still in your twenties and you thought it time because your grandfather told you to write one before you knew the proper uses of the semicolon. You called it an autobiography-a strange name from pages full of mutilated truths-but people seemed to like it. You weren't a hunter-you never knew a pair of brothers named after a shotgun-and you never saw bloodied glass shatter onto the ground.

There was-however-two young men named James and Grant who went to a lot of bars and never seemed to be in the same spot for more than a few days. You were a soul-searching lost boy with no sense of direction and an odd connection to something out of your hands-good pitch people thought. It didn't take too long, wasn't even very long, only put together a couple of years of useless human life anyway.

The library smelled like office carpet and drug store deodorant.

You had a run-in with a bear in Wisconsin-which-left you with a nasty scar on your stomach and irrational fear of lifeless things that move.

They said book signings were good for publicity.

"So," you start, flipping the cover open reluctantly and all too routine for anything genuine. "What am I putting down?"

You don't look up, don't really need to, decide to put the cap of the marker on the back of writing utensil-couldn't lay it all out any easier.

"Uh," you see a hand tap on the table. "That's a hard one."

You sigh-it's been two hours.

"Dear Sam," the voice is oddly soft-unexpected to you-and it trails off into the air mindlessly. Precise though. "Really sorry I never called, never wanted to give you a heart attack, hope we can see each other again sometime soon."

Your handwriting is decently neat as the words 'Dear Sam' _do_ stain the off-white page-doesn't keep going-can't keep going. You drink beer and think about him a lot-decide you are going to call him-decide you must do it right now because you still have his number-decide he's moved on-decide you're an idiot-decide you should get some sleep. Never get that sleep though-lay in bed and think about him smiling at you and saying that he's just glad they caught up with you this time.

He was glad a lot.

"Okay, okay," you say, the ink doesn't quite reach. "That's good, but how about 'Dear Sam, I meant to call, I just didn't really think a drunk confession that I would most likely forget in the morning would be the best idea when it came down to it."

"Hm," the hand leaves the table. "Just not sure I believe it."

"Does that really matter?"

____

"Here."

It's not that any of this was needed, but your arms were outstretched and the whole 'towering over you' thing still bothered you more than it should've. 

"Here?"

He looks at the record-it's wide-probably inconvenient-you keep looking him in the eye. You're not sure what music Sam likes-if he listens to music-but you bought it seven months ago when you were wasted and wanted to feel some of that nostalgic bliss you wrote about a lot. He didn't look at you-though-but at the item you held out to him. His hair was longer-you though-something you didn't usually pay much attention to.

"Creep," you say, younger now. "Radiohead."

He doesn't get it, you assume, but he smiles.

"Creep, right."

"Yeah, well I just thought that since you're leaving and I'm not you might want-"

"No, I get." He _does_ look at you. He smiles too. "I get it."

There is this silence-you call it happiness, you think Sam would call it silence because he isn't like you and he doesn't think like that. He does-same as you in a few ways that never seemed to show up when you carried a knife tucked in the side of your shoe-want to kiss you a lot more than he thought. He did think about it-once-a few weeks after he met you and the smile you gave him was wider than normal. 

You weren't smiling very wide now-didn't need to.

"Well uh-" you pause, laugh at yourself sternly. "I'm glad because it was way too hard to find for something so _fucking_ cliche." He looks chaotic, not really, but his mind must. You aren't one for profanities and he raises an eyebrow. "I cried over a ghastly nightmare in Minnesota and I almost got my eye torn out by an angry drunk in Michigan." He looks at you longer now-doesn't really know what you mean-remembers the eye thing.

His hands are in his pockets-yours are not-he wobbles towards you.

"I remember." He leans forward-infinitesimal-expression thin. "Sort of."

You nod, laugh again-not very stern.

"Me too." You pause-really do try to ignore it all-fail a little bit. "Sort of." You do remember some things-basic ones-lots of smiling and lots of smart-ass comments that you got a couple of glares for. It's not that you fell apart too much-almost did-didn't though-you just don't seem to think about the past as much as you should. "Not really, though it's kind of like when you're little and you try a piece of cake but all you remember is your parents telling you how stupid you looked and not how the cake actually tasted."

"You're comparing our memories to a toddler's cake?"

He smiles at it-his own statement.

"Our memories?"

"Your memories."

You laugh at that too-Sam rarely tried to look your height and so he leans down more-proves a point maybe. You think a lot-think now-try to think often but it only comes to when you would rather it not do so. This isn't preferable-no one said it was-Sam keeps smiling.

"Stories, honestly."

You sigh-he sighs-you both sigh and it's not an awkward silence. His eyes aren't a color-you decide-and they never seem to be, very brown and all too blue when they get all misty. You wrote a poem about his eyes when you were younger, about how they made you believe in happiness or some shit that you _had_ to rip up and toss in the wind before Dean picked it up from the conveniently obvious ground and never let you live in peace. 

"Stories, right."

He doesn't really understand you-can't quite reach it-but your words always settle in his head which makes it sort of perfect in the long run.

"Well uh," he isn't at your level-tall again-towering. "I should go."

You forgot-for a moment-so you nod.

"Yeah-yeah, you should go."

His smile is a thin line-you miss coincidence-the tips of your fingers whiten against the record.

He wants to move-looks like he does-but you can't help but notice that his feet aren't moving and his hands are still stuffed in his pockets. 

"I'm sorry," he says, too genuine for smiles now. "I really am sorry."

You can't find yourself believing it-not really-not ever-but you nod and pretend it means something to you, pretend it means the whole world and that you're on the verge of tears for the reasons one might expect. He looks sad too-verge of tears sad-dead dog sad maybe-although you never really think anyone truly reaches dead dog sad even when their dog happens to be dead.

"Yeah," you gulp it down, look at your shoes, they seem to be doing okay now since you bought a new pair a few months ago. "Yeah, I know."

"Hey I, uh-" he gulps it down too, looks at you, not his shoes-his shoes are sort of boring at this point. "I just want to say that I-"

You cut him off, don't mean to be so rude about it but soon realize that rudeness was never an issue.

"Don't, really just-don't. I'll give you the record and send you a glance full of sorrow-you'll smile-I'll smile back-and you'll leave like you never cam because this isn't a rom-com and my jokes just aren't production quality." You tilt your head, press your lips together, hold out the record again.

Sam laughs.

"Your jokes are _so_ production quality."

"Mhm, Sam Winchester, sucky charmer-great ghostbuster."

____

You die on a hunt in Kansas.

Not on the hunt-actually-after the hunt. You got hit, killed the thing though-something you had no idea you were capable of. It's just that you weren't as good as you used to be-too rusty because it hurt a lot now-it all hurt too much-and you slipped.

You called 911 and passed out in front of a drug store run by a woman with dreadful dyed blonde hair and a lot of pink eye makeup.

Sam is next to you at the hospital and he holds your hand-you pretend this can't just be your mind-and then he tells you he's here, doesn't mention worry but you can see it in his eyes. He does stay-you don't fall asleep when he thinks you do-and his hand is really warm without the context of any emotional standpoint when it comes to the matter of romance and the perpetual moving of existence.

Sam watches you die-doesn't get over it for a while-thinks about it a lot.

He will remember a few things-your face(mandatory)-your smile-and that one time you woke up, drugged on pain meds, and told him that you honestly hated Radiohead and your head was messed up past fixable, you said you loved him and that you wished you had told him when you weren't loopy and your blood was still in you, you told him how is eyes changed color and how his hair kept getting longer. 

You told him that the word 'refrigerator' seemed to lack the 'd' that was included in the word 'fridge' and that you would never get over that.

He watches you die-sees the machine-thing that you stated you hated the beeping of display a boring old line-feels you become the tiniest bit colder even though it wouldn't really happen that fast.

He keeps that damn record with him until he loses it-finds it again-and tosses it into a lake.

See, he figures-if you were there to see him-you would demand he throw it in a lake because he never had the chance to do the same for you, as per very specific request, and he thinks it's the next best thing.

Sam listens to a _fucking_ load of Radiohead.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to put it out there that I have no idea if any of this makes sense. I've been told I suck at making things clear enough, I like to think that it's just the jealousy talking, but sorry if anything was confusing. 
> 
> I also realized, when I was finished with this, that I never used Y/n once, not on purpose I swear, I hope that wasn't weird.
> 
> (Sorry about any typos.)


End file.
